ASIAFrom all the blasts of heaven thou hast descended:Yes, like a spirit, like a thought, which makesUnwonted tears throng to the horny eyes,And beatings haunt the desolated heart,Which should have learnt repose: thou hast descendedCradled in tempests; thou dost wake, O Spring!O child of many winds! As suddenlyThou comest as the memory of a dream,Which now is sad because it hath been sweet;Like genius, or like joy which riseth upAs from the earth, clothing with golden cloudsThe desert of our life.This is the season, this the day, the hour;At sunrise thou shouldst come, sweet sister mine,Too long desired, too long delaying, come!How like death-worms the wingless moments crawl!The point of one white star is quivering stillDeep in the orange light of widening mornBeyond the purple mountains. through a chasmOf wind-divided mist the darker lakeReflects it: now it wanes: it gleams againAs the waves fade, and as the burning threadsOf woven cloud unravel in pale air:'Tis lost! and through yon peaks of cloud-like snowThe roseate sunlight quivers: hear I notThe Aeolian music of her sea-green plumesWinnowing the crimson dawn?(...)